


we deserve a chance to start (again)

by Lywinis



Series: Lo(v)er - Carve it in the Bridge: A Reddie ficlet/one-shot listing [14]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, M/M, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24240325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: Richie can't sleep, post Neibolt.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Lo(v)er - Carve it in the Bridge: A Reddie ficlet/one-shot listing [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686373
Comments: 5
Kudos: 84





	we deserve a chance to start (again)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bearfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/gifts), [birkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birkin/gifts).



> bearfeathers said:  
> "I can't sleep." Reddie.

Two days after Neibolt, Richie couldn't sleep.

Maybe it was his circadian rhythm. He'd always been a night owl, Richie mused, flipping through the channels on the television the Inn provided in his room. There were far more than the remembered five local channels, plus the fuzzy, out of focus Bangor channels that you could only get if you had a fancy antenna on your roof. Someone at the Inn had sprung for cable.

Richie still didn't know who — no one had appeared to check them in, and no one had been working at the front desk for their many comings and goings. He had a feeling no one would be there to check them out, either, but that was just a hunch.

Pennywise's grip on Derry was fading, slowly. Richie could already feel it, in the absence of the heavy feeling that seemed to press in from all directions. It left him feeling strange, like the thing beneath the sewers had created a vacuum with Its death, a void waiting for something to fill it.

There was not anything that could fill that void, Richie told himself. It was absolutely not the reason he couldn’t sleep.

But it was? What happened, now?

There would be no more overabundance of missing children. There would be no strange miasma of adults that didn't seem to care, until it was their own children that went missing. There were no more lurking monsters, waiting beneath the bed to grab your ankles.

And no one would ever know why.

Wasn't that some shit, he thought with a snort. Big damn heroes, and no one would ever know. Well, most of them were.

Richie didn't feel like a hero.

He felt like hot garbage. They hadn’t been able to leave Derry just yet, and really, he was avoiding his responsibilities with all the enthusiasm of his teenage self ditching chores to go smoke with Bev in the Barrens. It just seemed surreal, returning to the life he had like nothing had even happened.

Richie sighed out, flicking past another made for TV movie that had a plot he couldn’t follow with the buzzing in his brain. He wanted to be doing something, anything that didn’t mean he was going back to where he was before.

His thoughts drifted to the Losers, likely worn out and asleep. Bev and Ben were heading out after lunch tomorrow, they’d said at dinner tonight. Bev needed to file paperwork, and Ben was going in solidarity. Richie felt the smile creep up unbidden; it was no secret that Ben was gone on Bev and had been since they were kids. 

Though it wasn’t like he was one to talk. It was just nice that they got a semi-happy ending. It was good that he and Bev had gotten together. If anyone deserved it, they did.

Bill and Mike were busy packing up the room above the library, stowing and selling Mike’s books and maps of the Derry area. They both seemed to be of the same mind, there, wanting to get Mike packed up and out before Bill returned back to California.

Richie had that to look forward to, as well; Bill lived in Redding, which was just a day’s drive from LA. It would be easy to coordinate visits and arrange holidays, because they’d all agreed that keeping in touch was ideal.

None of them mentioned the fear of forgetting, how they hesitated to leave Derry, lest the others fade away from their minds. But the way they clung to each other spoke in ways that didn’t really need words.

He winced as he shifted his shoulder. The stitches were holding, at least. When he’d landed out of the Deadlights, he’d come down hard. Eddie had been right there, snapping him out of things, and Richie had been less than coherent. It had been instinct to pull Eddie down and cover him with his own body as the claw struck out, Pennywise’s flailing tearing open his shoulder almost to the bone.

It was all right; it had been less than lethal.

He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if he’d hesitated.

Eddie was rooming a floor above him. Richie wondered if he was sleeping at all. The others seemed to be doing just fine, weathering the storm. Richie, with his constantly moving mouth and eternally circling thoughts, was nervous, suppressed energy. As always, it seemed, both in his teen years and now, his thoughts kept returning to Eddie. He blew out a sigh. Fuck.

He rubbed at his eyes, knocking his glasses up on his head. The prickles of exhaustion crept in, but the pull on his shoulder was enough that he was still restless. He should be sleeping too.

Richie feared the dreams that would come. 

Instead, he rolled to his feet, stiff and with a grunt that would have horrified his thirteen-year-old self. Now, he just stepped into the hallway barefoot, intent on going down to the kitchen and rummaging up a snack and maybe a beer, to encourage himself to sleep.

Midnight had long crawled past; Richie had sat through at least an hour’s worth of infomercials beyond that. The Inn had settled, all was quiet. He flicked on the kitchen light, and for lack of a television in this room, he turned on the old radio that sat in the windowsill, likely to catch the stations all the way in Portland.

It was, all told, a nice night, even if he was in fucking Derry, of all places. He looked out the window, unafraid of the dark for the first time in a long while, and watched the clouds scudder across the moon. Soft rock floated through the air, and he hummed along with the song, the lyrics taking a moment to sink in.

_Heartbreak's never easy to take_

_But can we still be friends?_

_It's a strange, sad affair_

_Sometimes seems like we just don't care_

_Don't waste time feeling hurt_

_We've been through hell together_

Richie paused, then pushed the song away, demoting the lyrics to background noise again. Todd Rundgren wasn’t the worst thing that could have come up, and honestly, it fit his melancholy mood. He scrounged in the cabinets, finding peanut butter and jelly, along with a loaf of bread, and he set about making a sandwich. Instead of a beer, feeling like a kid again, he poured himself a glass of milk, putting the sandwich on a napkin so he could eat over the sink.

Everyone would go back to their lives, eventually. He didn’t anticipate anyone staying here for more than a week, himself included. For someone who’d been chomping at the bit to get the fuck out of here before, he was dragging his feet, and he knew why.

He was remembering the last time he’d left.

He would write, he swore. And call on the weekends if he could. He’d done none of that, the town and the friends he’d made slipping away the first night he’d fallen asleep. He’d woken with the vague sense of relief that he was gone, and with an ache he couldn’t quite rid himself of following him into adulthood.

He took a bite of his sandwich. The jelly was too sweet, full of sugar and artificial shit, and that was how he’d liked them as a kid. The milk evened it out, and he alternated bites and sips, dragging out one more day by taking as long as possible to eat it.

“Rich?”

He banged his knee on the cabinet, jerked out of his thoughts by Eddie’s voice. Bright pain flashed along his knee; he’d caught it on the knob right above the joint, where all the nerve endings rested. He yelped, stumbling backward, and Eddie grabbed him under the elbow.

“Whoa, whoa!” Eddie got him stabilized, and Richie grabbed onto the sink to steady himself. “You okay?”

“Yeah, shit,” Richie grunted, putting his weight on his other leg. “Sorry. Just didn’t expect—”

“Anyone else to be up,” Eddie said.

Richie nodded, squinting at Eddie. He didn’t look like he’d slept. Dark rings under his eyes made them pouchy, lending Eddie a far more grouchy air than his usual, if anyone knew him at all. Richie liked to think he did, but what did he really know about Eddie? He had last spoken to him at eighteen.

He was dressed for bed, soft pajama pants and a t-shirt, cotton and threadbare in places. It looked like it had seen many washings, and Richie had to smile to himself. Still those kids from a shitty old town with a dried up ironworks and low income. Some habits didn’t die with a career, no matter how successful. He looked soft and frowsy and ready for a long rest. Richie envied him that.

“Shoulder keeping you up?” Eddie asked. His voice was low, just between them, and it made Richie ache something fierce, in his chest. While Eddie wound up and verbally sparring with him was one thing, this was entirely another, reserved for late nights at Loser slumber parties and study sessions where Richie only remembered how Eddie looked in the low, muted lights of the library.

“Ah, sort of,” Richie said. He glanced out the window. “Mostly...mm. I’m killing time.”

“Killing time?” Eddie asked.

Richie nodded. “Everyone is going to leave soon. I just sort of wanted to...keep this for a little while.”

“Oh,” Eddie said. Richie wasn’t sure Eddie understood it, but he sounded like he was trying. He glanced over at the half-finished sandwich Richie had been eating. “You wanna make me one of those?”

“Don’t you have a bullshit peanut allergy?” Richie challenged.

“Don’t you have a shutting the fuck up allergy?” Eddie countered. “I want one too, and I don’t wanna hip check your ass when you just hurt yourself, so I’m asking. Please.”

“Sure, Eds.” Richie pulled out the bread again and washed his hands, prepping another sandwich. Eddie got his on a napkin, too, but he inspected it like he was fucking Gordon Ramsay. Richie resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“You cut the crust off,” Eddie said. Richie couldn’t gauge his tone. 

“Yeah,” Richie said. He popped a piece of the crust of the bread in his mouth, chewing.

“How the _fuck_ did you remember that?” Eddie asked.

“Isn’t that how you like them?” Richie said.

“Yeah, but—no one’s done that for me since we were kids.” Eddie took a bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly. His next words were obscured by peanut butter. “God, this is too sweet.”

“Yup,” Richie said, popping the ‘p’ like the obnoxious asshole he was. He pulled down a glass and poured Eddie some milk. “Try that. Cures what ails you.”

“I—”

“If you tell me you’re fucking lactose intolerant too, I will waterboard you with that moo-juice, Eddie.”

Eddie snorted, but he took a sip of the milk, his voice clearing as the peanut butter unstuck from the roof of his mouth.

“Fuck you.” Eddie was fighting a smile, but Richie could see the start of his dimples.

“Fuck you, my sandwiches are the stuff of legends.”

“Sure, Rich.” The silence was comfortable, soft music floating between them, and the ache in Richie’s chest eased somewhat. It was nice, having this with Eddie again.

He was going to miss the hell out of him when he had to go.

“I’ve got to go back soon,” Eddie said, looking out the window.

“Work?” Richie asked, hating himself for prying and hoping that the opposite wasn’t true. That it wasn’t Eddie’s wife pulling him back.

“Some of it, yeah. I’ve gotta...talk to a lawyer.” Eddie squinted, as though trying to see the stars like he had in the bed of Richie’s old truck when they were sixteen and stupid, driving up to the hill to the picnic area by the highway, where they could drink and smoke and steal time for themselves. “My life’s a fucking mess.”

“Hey, join the club,” Richie said. “I mean, we’re in the same club. The Losers all seem to have that weird—we all seem to be fucked up, one way or another. Mostly, I mean.”

Stan, while not there, still lingered between them, his presence a weight that they both felt. A wife they’d never met, a life they didn’t know. Wasn’t the same to be said of them? How much would they remember of Stanley, and how much would still be true? Richie had no idea.

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed.

Richie frowned down at his sandwich, popping the last bite in his mouth and chasing it with a healthy sip of milk.

“Hey, Rich?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah?”

“What would you do, if you...if you wanted to start over?” Eddie asked. His voice sounded small in the kitchen, only audible above the music because Richie had turned the volume down in the first place. “What would you want to do?”

Richie leaned his hip against the counter. “If I could do anything?”

“Yeah.” Eddie said.

“I’d probably...get married to my best friend,” he said slowly. They were speaking in hypotheticals, after all. “I don’t know that I’d make it in comedy, though. I did some real hard time in the trenches, didn’t eat real good, slept in my car—”

“I mean, this is just a, a what-if,” Eddie said, waving a hand. “You can do whatever you want.”

“Definitely get married, then,” Richie decided. He didn’t look at Eddie, watching his reflection in the window cast a sharp look at him. “Get a dog, host SNL and piss off Lorne Michaels some more.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah,” Richie said. He drained his glass of the last of his milk, rinsing it in the sink. “It’s just a what-if, right?”

“Yeah.” Eddie turned the glass on the counter. The milk wobbled with the movement and painted the inside of the glass in little white parabolas, drawing Richie’s gaze to Eddie’s fingers and the way his hands flexed around the rim.

“What about you?” Richie asked.

“I’d move to LA,” Eddie said. “Maybe take up baseball.”

“It’d suit you, shortstop.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie said, but it wasn’t said with any heat. “I’d marry my best friend, too.”

“Yeah?” Richie said. The ache that yawned in him opened into a pit in his stomach.

“Mhm,” Eddie said. “Since I can do whatever I want.”

“Hypothetically.” Richie said.

“Of course.”

Richie bit his lip. “You know—”

“You’re my best friend,” Eddie blurted. “You know that, right?”

The music floated between them, soft and filling the quiet between them like gold stoppering the cracks of broken pottery. Something new; Toto, Richie realized, somewhere in the back of his brain where he was barely keeping track of anything that wasn’t Eddie Kaspbrak and his big, dark eyes and dangerously sharp cheekbones.

_I guess I have myself to blame_

_Time can't erase the things we said_

_But it gives me time to realize that you're the one instead_

“Still?” Richie asked.

“Of course,” Eddie said. “No one else cuts the crust off my fucking sandwiches, eats it without complaint. You got hurt because—”

“Hey,” Richie interjected. “No. I’m okay.”

“Your shoulder—”

“It was better than losing you, Eddie. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t have been able to take it if—” His voice was thick, and he looked down at the sink. “I can’t lose you again, man. It hurt too much the first time.”

“Richie,” Eddie’s voice was soft. “Rich. Please look at me.”

Richie looked up, and Eddie reached out, cupping his face in his hands. Eddie’s palms were chilly, they’d always seemed to be, Eddie on fire with a temper that ate up all his body heat. Rage was what kept Eddie Kaspbrak warm, Richie had reasoned, once. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

“You don’t think I wasn’t scared out of my mind for you? Jesus, Rich, when you screamed—”

“I know,” Richie said softly.

“I love you,” Eddie said. Richie swallowed, his jaw jumping against Eddie’s palms. “I know that seems like a lot, probably, and please don’t be mad at me or hate—”

Richie surged forward, pressing Eddie to the cabinet. Eddie’s glass of milk tumbled into the sink, breaking on the impact, but Richie was more concerned with kissing Eddie. That desperate first touch went gentler as Richie figured out that Eddie was more than okay with this. Soft, questing kisses, Richie pressing his mouth to Eddie until he opened beneath him and Eddie laughed against his mouth. Richie could _feel_ Eddie’s dimples this time, and he gave a soft, delighted noise.

“Fuck you,” he mumbled. “I’m sleep deprived, don’t do that to me.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie mumbled back, pressing kisses all over Richie’s cheeks, his chin, wherever he could reach. “You went and made a fucking mess.”

“Bullshit, you started it,” Richie said, and Eddie snorted, tangling a hand in his hair. “I love you.”

“Oh, thank god,” Eddie said. Richie laughed against his ear, and Eddie tugged gently on his hair.

They stayed like that for a moment, trading soft kisses, before Richie dropped his head to Eddie’s shoulder.

“Where does this leave us?” he asked. “What happens now?”

“Well,” Eddie said, thoughtful. “We clean up the sink. We go to bed. And we figure out how to start over in the morning, together.”

“I’d...like that.” Richie straightened up, wincing.

“And you’re gonna rest your fucking shoulder,” Eddie said, scowling up at him.

Richie couldn’t do anything but lean in and kiss Eddie again. He was infuriating when he was right.

**Author's Note:**

> I have not had the greatest time trying to keep on top of my requests, lately. Rest assured I have gotten them and (while some of them are heavy, I want to write them so I'm working on treating them with the gravitas they deserve). Have something I've been noodling at the past couple of days.
> 
> (As an aside, Stan is still alive, as he usually is in my fix-it verses. They just haven't had a chance to find that out, yet.)


End file.
